


Call Me Back

by Mizuphae



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Bruce Wayne is Bad at Communicating, Bruce Wayne is a Bad Parent, Gen, Tim Drake Has a Bad Time, Tim Drake Needs a Hug, Tim Drake is Red Robin, Tim Drake-centric, what is life at this point
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:48:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26438206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mizuphae/pseuds/Mizuphae
Summary: Gasping for breath, Tim listens to the phone dial. And—”This is Batman. Contact the Justice League or Oracle, in case of emergency.”—voicemail.He lets out a single, harsh sob.
Relationships: Tim Drake & Bruce Wayne
Comments: 22
Kudos: 279





	Call Me Back

His phone is ringing. Well, it’s not ringing but vibrating in Morse code. And it’s not a regular cell phone, but a burner. Regardless, he won’t answer it because he knows _exactly_ who is calling. Tim presses his lips into a thin line as he narrowly ducks an incoming punch. Bruce’s words from earlier still rings in his ears, despite the pandemonium that surrounds him. 

“That plan was foolish to begin with,” Bruce had growled at him, roughly taking off his cowl. 

Sure, from the surface, it looked like Bruce was talking about the patrol gone-wrong that night when Red Robin decided to not report his injuries and keep fighting instead. He had taken a baseball bat (that he mostly dodged) to his abdomen, but that was nothing compared to when he lost his spleen to the Widower. It was nothing compared to when Damian pushed him off the dinosaur in the Bat Cave. And it was absolutely _nothing_ compared to how he felt when Jack Drake died. That’s what Bruce is actually talking about. Ever since Tim created a plot that wouldn’t harm his father’s murderer—as long as Harkness strayed from the path of evil—Bruce has been furious. And _every_ discussion somehow comes back to it.

“It was calculated,” Tim said sharply, trying to keep any emotion out of his voice. His fingers were tense but he relaxed them as soon as he noticed. There was no need to give Bruce even more evidence against him. They’ve had this argument before, but his mentor’s lack of trust in him—the Robin who had saved him from both himself and the nightmarish incident with Darkseid— _stung_. 

_It burned._

Tim stared at Batman straight in the eyes and cut straight to the chase, voice cold and dry. “There were _thousands_ of ways he could have saved himself by doing the right thing. Just one right thing. But he didn’t.”

He knew his plan even better than the back of his hand. Everything was calculated: fail-safes were made and plans were thought over. For days, or weeks, even. And most prominently, Captain Boomerang didn’t die. So why the hell was Bruce making such a big deal out of it?

Tim watched as Batman’s jaw clenched, his fist gripping the cowl as if it was the only thing that was keeping him from snapping. Maybe it was. 

“You made the wrong call, tonight.” Batman crossed his arms, as if creating a wall between the former-dynamic duo. As if he was shielding himself from Tim—in case Tim will go rogue—and Batman will have to step up to stop him. 

Tim only huffed a small breath before turning his back on Batman. With quick strides, Tim walked up to the Batcomputer and started to enter the information he had received from his sources during the patrol. 

“You’re benched.”

Only the split second in which his fingers froze mid-typing revealed Tim’s acknowledgment. Tim inhaled, taking a deep breath.

“For two weeks.” 

Tim harshly exhaled. He finished up his last sentence before exiting the tab and standing up. As he turned to face Batman, he felt a rush of frustration, despair, and other emotions he couldn’t possibly name at that moment. 

“B.” His fingers fidgeted at his sides. “You can’t be serious.”

“Three weeks.”

 _Yeah, right._ Tim shook his head. “I can’t do this. Not today,” he muttered to himself. Batman obviously heard it, anyway. 

“Can’t do what?” His voice echoed across the cave as the bats tittered above.

“No.” Tim shook his head again and began to gather his things. “I’ll be at the Nest.”

Turning to save what he was able to type, he logged off as quickly as he could. No need to bother shutting it down since Batman would write his report soon, anyway. He inwardly ranted to himself about how unfair the situation was as he tossed his supplies into a bag and started to meticulously organize the files that were splayed out across the desk.

“Red Robin.”

He tried. He swore that he tried to ignore him. Just like how he saw Jason walk out of the cave without even throwing a single, glance back at Bruce. But Tim couldn’t. All of the goddamn Robin conditioning won’t break. He turned to face Batman.

“What.” He deadpanned.

“You still need to treat your injuries.”

“No, I’ll do it at the Nest.” 

Even without the cowl, Batman’s face was stony as ever. 

“No,” Batman emphasized. “You will do it here. And now.”

“Stop it, B. I’m emancipated. You’re no longer legally obligated.” Tim laughed humorlessly. “Congrats. Not your problem anymore.”

“Red Ro—Tim.” Tim had raised an eyebrow. “I am still your father.”

Tim couldn’t help it; he was _exhausted_. It had been a long day and a long night. Hours of facing power-hungry businessmen followed by hours of facing down the crimes of Gotham tired him to the bone. And he couldn’t help but burst out, “He was my father too!”

Bruce looked taken aback for a fraction of a second before resuming his critical manner. “Yes.” Tim waited in bated breath for him to continue in veiled hope that he would say the right thing. Instead, Bruce tiredly ran a hand through his hair and said “But now you must move on and—”

Tim didn’t want to hear it. Move on? Ha! This, coming from the man who dresses as a flying rodent to punch criminals in the face after his own parents died. Unbelievable. 

He spun on his heel and had to keep himself from stomping towards his car. He isn’t a child. Control your anger. You may feel, but you should never express it. Convert it into strength instead. Business tactics. Psychology also says that you should never convert your negative emotions into aggression because that reinforces a violent attitude, but it’s far too late for that one. So business tactics, it is.

Tossing his bag into the passenger side and climbing into the drive seat, he resisted any urges to stay and apologize. A quiet voice told him he was doing what his parents did to him; he shook his head to clear the thought. Before he shut the car door, he threw his comm on the floor of the cave.

“If you want to talk to me,” his voice was deadly quiet but he knew Bruce would hear every word, “see me in person.” With those last words, he slammed the car door and put the car in reverse. 

As he pulled out of the Bat Cave, he saw Bruce shout something in his rearview mirror, but he didn’t hear it.

Pain explodes in Tim’s cheek as he is thrown back into the present. God, the bruised ribs must really be taking a toll on him if he is getting this distracted. Blood wells up in his mouth and he debates between spitting and swallowing; he ends up spitting.

“Hey,” he calls out with false cheer. “That wasn’t very nice! An ‘excuse me’ goes a long way!”

The mafia members grumble and curse at him, but he doesn’t pay them much mind. Tim narrows his eyes as he swung a punch at another of the men, successfully knocking him out.

Tim sucks in a breath, scrunching his nose at the stale air of the underground base where one of the newer mafias was starting up after Red Hood kicked the former residents out of Gotham. His eyes flicked across the room, searching for ways to get and keep an upper hand on them. _Got it._ In a quick flurry of motions, Tim launches himself at the next mafia member. 

Once he finishes knocking out the last of them, he operates like clockwork. He pulls out the zip ties and gets to binding. Tim hums a little as he works, trying to keep his mind off of Bruce, Harkness, and Jack.

Jack. Damn it. Tim remembers his father’s exact last words. Jack had told him that he loved him. Just like how his mom did, as well. But if they truly loved him, why did they always leave him? Tim hated being alone. He still does. Bruce probably hates being alone too. Then why did Tim leave him—

A gunshot sounds through the air. Tim curses, scrambling to his feet to find the shooter. There. Out of the corner of his eye, Tim spots a young woman ducking behind a pole while carrying some sort of rifle. It’s hard to see it from here, but he’s sure he’ll recognize what kind from up close. Acting as if he hadn’t spotted her yet, he pretends to frantically search for her while gathering ideas for vantage points and obstacles he can use to his advantage. Tim silently leaves her line of sight and circles the hallways (of which layout he had memorized prior). First things first, remove the firearm from her person. Tim moves to kick the rifle out of her hands and then hits it farther away with his bo staff. He attempts to tackle her, but finds that his weight isn’t enough to encumber her as she quickly flips them over and reaches for her gun. 

Another gunshot. A force of burning and pressure erupts in his abdomen and Tim quickly moves to disarm her again, doing his best to ignore the new injury. He punches her where he suspects the liver may be and watches in grim satisfaction as she falls to the ground, gasping in pain. With a grunt, he tackles her once more to keep her restrained.

With the last of his remaining strength, he focuses all of his weight and presses his bo staff across her neck. Tim sighs in relief once she falls limp, unconscious from the lack of oxygen. Reverting back to muscle memory, he immediately pulls out zip ties and ties her wrists and ankles together. He sighs again as he falls back onto his knees. He needs to get a hold of the Bats, he realizes as his vision darkens and wavers. Tim looked down at his body to assess the damage. It was the wound from earlier, when she had managed to shoot him. It was sopping with blood. The adrenaline from all of the chaos had thankfully kept the pain at bay while he fought, but now that he is safe, he is certainly feeling the adrenaline crash. 

Groaning from the pain, Tim sits himself in a much more comfortable position. Everything should be fine once he puts some gauze on—he frowns as he empties out the containers in his bandoliers. Oh, right. Jason got injured and Tim gave him some supplies; he just never restocked. He needs to call… someone. And fast. If the blood loss doesn’t get him, the infection and sepsis will. He pulls out his phone that was ringing earlier and grimaces. 19 missed calls from Bruce. 23 from Babs. Yeah, he’s screwed if he makes it out of this. 

Tim pants as he roughly presses a hand against the gushing wound. His vision is flickering as he attempts to focus on the phone screen. His thumb shakes as he enters the password and tries to call Oracle. No bueno. There’s no signal. Of course. Classic Bat luck. He needs to get out of here. 

Shoving the phone back into his pocket, he attempts to stand up. He instantly blacks out. For how long? He doesn’t really know, but when he wakes up, he is surrounded by a pool of blood. He shudders at the memories of the desert all over again, where he lost Owen and Z and almost Pru. The vague images of the hotel room where the pure white bed was utterly soaked in Pru’s and his blood. And everything was all his fault.

He stumbles to his feet, mentally resolute. He will get through this. A voice whispers to him, asking him what would happen if he doesn’t. Tim ignores it. He suddenly feels an overwhelming rush of exhaustion. He knew this would happen, ever since day one. This was how Tim’s career as Robin was _made_. He knew the costs when he knocked on Batman’s door that fateful day. He understood when Alfred smiled sadly as Tim put two sugar cubes in his cup of tea (just like Jason) and when Bruce stood solemnly in front of the glass case (Jason’s) and hid his tears. Tim knew he had an 83.68% chance of dying on the job; he did the calculations, considered all of the variables and everything. When he is asked where he sees himself as an adult, the first thing that pops up in his mind is a gravestone. He can’t help it. He knew it would happen. But what he didn’t know was when. Now, however, he has a sneaking suspicion. 

His vision flickers again as he attempts to focus on something; _anything_ but the pain. He is able to stagger halfway across the hall before his knees buckle.

“Goddamn it,” he mutters. Maybe he should start to do his last words and whatnot. He wants to talk to B. Who is supposed to be his dad. Who _is_ his dad.

He wants to talk to him, one more time. Just in case. He needs to make sure that Bruce wouldn’t blame himself, in case he dies. After Jason, Bruce took a long time to recover. But he has others now, Tim reassures himself. He doesn’t need Tim anymore, because everything Tim does could be done by someone else. Tim cracks a tired grin. He is easily replaced. The Replacement, like Jason so kindly says. 

His job as CEO of Wayne Enterprises? Bruce can take over again, just like how he was supposed to when he came back. His patrol routes? Just split it among the Gotham vigilantes. There’s so many of them anyway. He’s no longer working with the Teen Titans, so he doesn’t have that connection anymore. It’s done. Everything can run smoothly without him. Which was the goal, right? Keep Batman stable enough and Gotham running until the next Robin comes along. 

But still. Tim wants to talk to his dad, one last time. Just in case this is where it ends. He shakily moves his free hand to pull out his phone again, His thumb misses the buttons several times before he finally dialed his number. Will it work? Only the hope that he could hear just _one_ word of comfort from Bruce kept him conscious.

Gasping for breath, Tim listens to the phone dial. And—”This is Batman. Contact the Justice League or Oracle, in case of emergency.”—voicemail. Still no signal. Great.

He let his body collapse to the ground, his hand drops the phone and limply falls to the ground. He has no energy to even crawl out. He lets out a single harsh sob. Tim’s body feels numb; he doesn’t have the strength to even put pressure against the gunshot wound any longer.

When was the last time he talked to Bruce? What was the last thing Bruce had said to him? Oh. Right. When they had argued the other day. But Tim isn’t sure what he had said. An idea sparks in his mind; he could leave a voice memo on his Batwatch even without signal. It’s really only supposed to be used to record valuable information for cases but he doesn’t see anyone coming to stop him from doing otherwise. Might as well clear his conscience while he still could. With a grunt, he sluggishly moves his hand to turn the dial on his watch 90 degrees. A red light emits from the side of the watch and blinks three times.

“Bru- B.” Tim licks his lips, noticing that his breathing is becoming faster and shallower by the second. “Dad. I’m sorry. Thanks for- thanks for letting me be your Robin. One of- one of them. You’ll be okay.” 

Tim grimaces as he hears himself echo Dick’s words. “Liste-listen to Agent A because,” Tim laughs weakly, “Agent A knows best.” 

He grins a bloody smile. “Oracle too.” He doesn’t bother turning off the voice memo. With a sigh, he murmurs quietly “Sorry.”

He takes one last shaky breath in. And one last breath out.

His vision darkens and as he falls into death’s cold embrace, he hears a faint buzzing. Bruce’s vibration pattern.

Dash dot dot dot, dash dash. Dash dot dot dot, dash dash. Dash dot dot dot, dash dash.

But it ends.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading.
> 
> (The dots and dashes are Morse code, if you're curious.)


End file.
